


like rabbits

by tomatoleries



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Kinda, POV Second Person, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatoleries/pseuds/tomatoleries
Summary: Spring is nice, when things look so alive after months of nothing but ice and snow and a world frozen over. Spring is fresh and not ruthlessly cold, spring is a sleepy kind of warm that puts you at ease and lets you just be you as the Summoner, but also you as a close confidant of the prince of Askr, and you as a lovestruck fool...In this moment, home, to you, is what you have in the palm of your hand.--late fic ft. Bunny!Alfonse because we all love him





	like rabbits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [niemingjueplscrushme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niemingjueplscrushme/gifts).



> My friend, talking about Bunfonse: god i want to just rip off his clothes  
> Me: hold my beer
> 
> \--  
> \--

“So,” he says as he sits down next to you, launching into an easy conversation, and you smile at Alfonse, his voice always with that nice lilt when he says your name.

 

It’s been more or less a year since you came here and became a part of this world, of Askr, and the heroes, and the wars, and him, and, carrying the conversation with your prince, you think of how far you both have come.

 

He has been studying the spring festival, he begins. His elbow brushes lightly against your arm, gesturing animatedly as he speaks, and he does not mind the contact at all. Roughly a year ago, he would maintain a cold, strict distance between yourselves even though it was him who would offer to go on patrols with you. Conversations were polite enough to be nice, but clipped, professional, so no one forgets that he is your prince and you are his tactician, and none of you were supposed to be attached.

 

Now, looking at the prince in all his springtime glory, bunny ears swinging when he moves, as he talks about rabbits and eggs and such, your guards are down, all your worries over having everybody’s lives and survival resting in your hands are laid down if only for a while, and you allow yourself to breathe and just be. He is casual, now, touching your arm when emphasizing a point, bumping shoulders when you make jokes, and all this will never not feel like spring itself, fresh with all the promise of beginnings and possibilities. How long you have come.

 

Spring is nice, when things look so alive after months of nothing but ice and snow and a world frozen over. Spring is fresh and not ruthlessly cold, spring is a sleepy kind of warm that puts you at ease and lets you just be you as the Summoner, but also you as a close confidant of the prince of Askr, and you as a lovestruck fool. Your hands move before you can register the action in your brain, fingers brushing against the warm skin just below the golden choker around his neck.

 

How did you get here? It still strikes you everytime, the level of comfort, of trust, that you somehow ended up in with him, that all he does is give a small, startled gasp.  And then he laughs, shyly, one hand to the back of his neck, fingers absently playing with his hair -- he always does this when he’s embarrassed, and right now, a warm red slowly blooming across his face, up to the tips of his ears, you just know he is very, very embarrassed.

 

“Oh, the costume?” he supplies for you an excuse, eyes finally darting away from you to search the floor for more casual, easy words to say, and you just nod along. “I guess I’m stuck with it until Sharena says it’s okay to pack it up.”

 

Again, you tell him it looks good on him. Again, his hand plays with the hair near the nape of his neck. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” he says.

 

You pass the late morning like this with him, talking about spring, about the festival, about his coming battle with Kagero in the tournament, about everything and nothing. The first half of the day goes by with idle chatter and stolen glances from both sides, when the other isn’t looking.

 

There is a lull in the conversation, a comfortable sort of quiet, and you sigh contentedly, looking out into the wide windows of the castle. The sky is a deep, beautiful blue, wisps of clouds like feathers suspended overhead. This isn’t the sky you were born under, but a year in and it may as well be. Home, for you, has never been a place, has never been a specific location you could pinpoint in a map, anyway. Home is a warm blanket, home is a welcoming embrace, home is the fleeting moment of sudden reality after finishing a good book. Home is the warmth blossoming in your chest when you laugh with friends and you realize, in that moment, just how much you love them. Home is knowing there is something you can come back to, home is someone you want to protect. His costume has him wearing gloves, but you feel his warmth all the same when Alfonse takes your hand in his, and gently, your fingers curl around his, too. In this moment, home, to you, is what you have in the palm of your hand.

 

* * *

 

 

And so it starts with frantic hands, unbuttoning and unclasping, and then pulling off, off, throwing first your cloak, to the floor, and then, needy hands, touching, grasping, feeling as much skin as they could. Your back against the massive doors of his chambers, his hands start to slow down, carefully caressing your sides up and down as he plants soft kisses from your collarbone up to your neck, while you gasp and moan softly against him, giggling when his breath tickles you. Your hands move up from the small of his back, and you feel the muscles underneath his top, rolling when he shifts to pull you free of your undershirt.

 

By now, you know each of the scars across his skin, a map of victories hard-earned and won at such costs, each one a reminder of your risks and miscalculations on the battlefield. His jacket is a mess now, one side hanging off his shoulder and making him look as guilty as he is, but also revealing some of his scars. Your fingers lightly trace the one on his shoulder, feeling the way the flesh there will always be slightly raised and smoother than the rest of him, a pale, jagged gash, from when he barely dodged an enemy with a lance ready to skewer him alive. He murmurs your name to your ear, kisses the side of your head before he pulls away, just slightly, to cradle your face in his hands, and he looks at you, really looks at you, to say, “Stop worrying so much about me.”

 

There is that small smile of assurance on his face, all flushed and heated up now, and you know that he knows that this is a request you can never grant him -- you will always worry about Alfonse, your eyes will always follow his figure, all white and gold as he marches out to the frontlines. He will always be your always, in all ways, and in all ways, you know he already has you. But his thumb brushes softly across your cheek, and he smiles so reassuringly like his scars have never once been bleeding wounds that could have robbed a kingdom their future ruler, could have robbed Sharena a brother, could have robbed you of him. He smiles like he knows, and he  _ knows _ , and with a sigh you surrender to him, your forehead touching his as you laugh softly at your own demise.

  
  
  


He means to lay you on the bed gently, but as it goes, you fall together on the plush mattress, a mess of searching hands and tangled legs, and you’re laughing and kissing each other senseless. There is an inside joke there somewhere, in how he jumps at you like a rabbit in heat, and how your teeth grazing his skin is already enough to have him gasping for more. You give a small lick a bit past his collarbone, near where his neck slopes towards his shoulder, before you catch it between your teeth, sucking at it hard, leaving a mark beyond what can be covered by the choker that is part of his costume. He groans, one leg already parting yours, one hand roaming your middle, stopping just before the rise of your chest. He values discipline and patience, he once said. He is a fucking tease, you once replied.

 

Dizzy in his hands now, you mumble something about how unfair it is that you’re already topless while he is still mostly clothed in his costume; askew as they were, they still cover most of him, and he laughs gently, nuzzling and kissing your neck while you practically rip off the buttoned front of his jacket. You tug at the ridiculous cape made of lace now falling like a curtain from his side, framing your bodies as if hiding you from the rest of the world. Slits of sunlight draped across the floor and up to the wall, slender fingers of the warm afternoon interrupting the cool of stone and shade of his room. His eyes catch the rays, and you look up at them, deep sapphire bright and sparkling under golden specks of the sun, gazing back at you like he is seeing, in you, the world, for the very first time, and you are unprepared for this. He always catches you off-guard, in small moments, somehow, because even if you are made of strategies and well-constructed plans, you are completely out of your depth and drowning wherever Alfonse is involved. He is so beautiful, so radiant, so warm past the cold walls he had tried so hard to maintain, to no avail. The gold tips of his hair glowing in the light, you are reeling, taking in the fact that his smile, in this moment, so full of adoration, is meant only for you. His eyes on you, they are lakes. They are oceans. You never learned to tread water this deep.

 

But he is there, everytime, your tether and your ocean both, and you reach up to his face, just to be sure he is not a dream. Alfonse nuzzles into your palm, so easily, like you always belonged together like this, like he already knew, from the moment he was born, that your place in the world was to be by his side, as his is by yours.

 

Neither of you has yet dared say anything about this strange courtship going on between you, but for now, you choose to believe that actions speak louder than words.

 

So, you rid him, finally, of his top, and you pull him down for a kiss.

 

His lips are soft against yours, and eager for more of you. He licks at your bottom lip, teeth grazing them for a second, polite even in asking for entry, and you just have to smile at this as you acquiesce to his request. Alfonse is patient, careful, and agonizingly so -- he takes his sweet time mapping your torso with his hand, slow when he trails wet, bruising kisses, from that spot under your jaw that has you moaning right there and then, to your collarbone, to your stomach. Your back is arching against him now, pleading moans asking for more of the prince, and you hear him chuckling as much as you feel him, mouth leaving marks at your hips, his hands massaging your thighs to calm you down.

 

“Gods,” he sighs, his face resting on your thigh. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

 

\--and, for a split second, he seems to want to say something more, as if a confession is sitting on his tongue ready to leap out the moment he opens his mouth. But he moves quickly, and, were you not as close to him as you now are, you would think nothing of it but a simple trick of light, or of a longing heart--

 

His hands are gripping your hips, holding you down, and you already know what’s coming, but the stupid happy face he makes at you, from right between your legs, make you drop your head to the pillow as you laugh, shyly, and then heartily, happily. The bunny ears are still on him even after all that’s been done, and you think it should be illegal to still manage to look so innocent even as he is literally going down on you. He is laughing, too, and you swear you feel the tremors of his voice as he kisses down your thigh, almost reverently, before sucking hard and leaving more marks, more evidence that he had been there.

 

Lower, he goes, until finally,  _ finally _ , his hot mouth envelops your entrance, earning him a sharp gasp from you. From there you are a quivering mess beneath him, and he hums against you, the vibrations sending jitters all over your body, tongue lapping up everything you give him, your hips trying to buck up against his hold to feel more of him in you. His thumbs rub slowly at your hipbones as if to comfort you, even as his tongue prods and teases your most sensitive parts. His mouth sucks like he is starved for years for this, and you find yourself repeating a mantra calling the gods and his name,  _ Alfonse, Alfonse, oh gods, Alfonse, _ hands gripping at the sheets, his hair, anything you can hold on to to ground you, even as he takes you higher, your voice growing louder with each of his movements, calculated and memorized for endless days and nights spent just like this. Alfonse is nothing if not a generous lover.

 

He relishes your taste, swallows it all up, practically lives off of the sounds you make as he plunges two fingers in, curling to massage your walls to find that sensitive spot that makes you throw your head back with sheer pleasure, his mouth still building you up. You swear you see stars, eyes shut tight, toes curling, your entire being a tightly wound coil completely at his mercy, ready to snap. Slowly, with practiced ease, he pushes you over the edge, adding another finger, pulling them out and plunging them back in to curl and tease your walls in time with the hard circles his tongue draws, and he doesn’t stop even after you come in his mouth.

 

As you come down from the high, his other hand is back on your thigh, rubbing slow circles as he licks you clean. Through lidded eyes and ragged breaths you watch him lick his fingers clean, savoring your taste in each digit, the bunny ears almost fooling you into an image of innocence. But the glint in his eyes when they catch yours tell you what you already know -- he  _ delights _ in knowing what this does to you. You groan, impatient all over again, your thirst for him growing just like that. You hook one leg around his waist, giving him a message, and he has to laugh at your enthusiasm, because gods, how absolutely adorable. Alfonse takes a few seconds just watching you like this, your hair a mess, chest still heaving from the recent orgasm, your whole body flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat, your face you always hide with the hood of your cloak now in full display and openly wearing all the happiness and satisfaction you feel -- things  _ he _ makes you feel -- and his heart absolutely swells at the mere thought that he is the only one, your only one, who does this to you. Such an honor to witness you at your most naked, feel you against him at your most intimate. You reach out to him, and he crawls up to you obediently, one hand immediately at the back of your neck to bring you closer for another kiss.

 

Your hands get busy, feeling him all over, from his shoulders, to his back, wanting to touch him everywhere and all over, all at the same time. Alfonse makes you greedy, and you suspect he likes you like this, if his satisfied groan against your breast is anything to go by. He catches one nipple in his mouth, giving it a gentle bite before sucking on it, his one hand attending to its neglected twin, squeezing at the other breast before his fingers pinch the nub playfully.

 

But you want more,  _ more _ , you tell him, your knee gently massaging him between his legs and you realize, with a mind already half lost to this new pleasure he is giving you, that he still has his pants on.

 

His erection strains against the offending piece of clothing, his bulge  _ much _ bigger now in those pants, and your hands quickly find the band and try to pull it off of him. He chuckles again as he shifts his attention to your other breast, shifting above you so his other hand can hold himself up while the other plays with the soft mound. He grinds his hips on you, slowly, lazily, just to make you feel his hardness through the layers of clothes still on him, against your already exposed and wet entrance.

 

“You know,” he starts, when he finally decides to get off you to kick off the rest of his clothes and undergarments, “when you said you liked this costume on me, I didn’t think you meant it this way.”

 

Now completely naked and kneeling over you, you lean up on one elbow to look at him, taking this view of him fully. His skin is ribboned with scars, some still pink in their newness, while the other, deeper ones have already grown to a paler color of his skin. These ones, you knew, were from over a year ago, when the war with Embla was just beginning, and though he was trained since childhood with the sword, the battlefield is still new to him then. Over time you both learned, when to be careful and when to risk a hit, and now, war is nothing but a familiar shadow looming over your heads.

 

How far you’ve come.

 

Alfonse sees the concern in your eyes, the sudden shift in your mood, and moves to put space between you immediately. “Are you alright?” he asks. “We can stop if you don’t want to--”

 

You take his hand before he can finish what he is saying, and assure him you’re fine. You sit up to meet him, hands carefully  smoothing over his chest, the edges of uneven skin crumpled like an angry flower starting where his heart is supposed to be, spreading out to his other shoulder -- a permanent souvenir from a mage neither of you had expected to be able to warp right beside the enemy Alfonse was about to strike down, back in the early days of the war with Embla. It was only by sheer luck that he survived, Alfonse moving much faster than the mage, killing them before they could deliver a second, final blow.

 

You both know better now, you both have gained knowledge from experiencing battles and near-deaths firsthand, and you come home now with less injuries compared to yourselves from a year ago. You do not talk about whether it is a good thing or a bad thing that you are getting used to the fighting and the war now.

 

You do not talk about the guilt you have over every single scar he owns. You do not talk about a lot of things.

 

But this is not the time for this. You plant a kiss right over his heart, a small promise -- to him, to yourself -- that, for as long as you live, you will never let anything harm anyone in this new home you have found with them, most especially with him. And then, you kiss his jaw, right as he whispers your name. He has his eyes closed now, and you give him a kiss on the mouth, soft, chaste, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. He opens his eyes then, and it is plain in his face now how he is trying to read you.

 

You give a soft tug on one of the bunny ears, startling him a bit, and you both start giggling. Alfonse moves to finally completely free himself of the atrocious costume, but you stop him, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

 

“You… want me to keep wearing this?” he asks, half incredulous, half amused. Here’s another thing he now knows about you and what you like. “As you wish,” he chuckles.

 

You gently push him down the bed and he lies down obediently, his face a mix of thrill and anticipation, as you slowly trail one hand across this chest, dragging your nails slowly down his torso, his navel. He gasps when you finally wrap your hand around his hardened member, giving it a few slow pumps. His tip is already glistening with precome, and your thumb swipes it around the head as you lean down to lightly nip at his ear. He breathes out your name, ragged, voice cracking and almost gone, and you smile, licking at the shell of his ear before kissing down his jaw, finding his sensitive spot and kissing it too before sucking at it harshly, leaving yet another mark he will not be able to hide with his costume.

 

You pepper his neck and chest with bruising kisses like this as your other hand pumps his cock, and soon enough Alfonse is bucking into your hand, needing more friction, more speed, and he’s begging in your ear for more,  _ more, I need you, please _ , and you decide, you’ve dallied long enough. You take your hand back, leaving him hanging, and the desperate growl from his throat only spurs you on as you straddle his waist. He looks up at you as you line yourself up to him, your folds ready and practically dripping. His hands find themselves on your thigh, rubbing up to your hips, and there he holds on to you as you sink down on him, taking him completely inside of you in one slow, fluid motion. Alfonse groans at how your heat around him feels so good and so  _ right _ , and by now you are not anymore surprised with how loud and expressive he is in bed. You love it, he knows you love it, when your voices of pleasure echo around you every time you are tangled together like this.

 

“Gods,” he calls again, calls on your name as if repeating it will help him gather his wits. “Gods, you... feel so  _ good _ …”

 

And he does, too.

 

You start rocking your hips back and forth, grinding on him, his cock rubbing at your sensitive spot. His hands massage your sides, fingers pressing down your pelvic area, a bit below your belly button, where he is buried deep in you, and you let out a cry as he brushes against you harder.

 

Smug in his discovery, he continues massaging you, tucking this information away for future romps in bed (or the corridors, or the gardens, or the baths -- really, you were never picky with your locations anyway).

 

Your senseless moans soon form words, and it is his name you call, again and again, when you start lifting yourself up only to slam your hip back down on him. Alfonse is not faring any better; his mouth knows nothing but to call out your name, praising you and your every movement, like you yourself are the deity he worships. You start to pick up the pace, and Alfonse stares up at you, mesmerized by how you move, how your hair is tossed askew, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He wants to touch you so badly, run his hands all over your body, but to do so would ruin this image, as if you were merely an illusion his mind has conjured. Your hands are on his chest now, supporting yourself as you slam down on him harder, wanting to feel him as much as possible, and Alfonse thinks you are an angel, and no choir would sound as sweet as you, crying out his name again and again as you fuck yourself on him.

 

Alfonse gives, reaching up and giving your breasts a squeeze, earning a loud moan from you. He runs his hands up and down your torso for a while before he takes hold of your hips. He starts thrusting up to you, meeting you halfway in your rhythm, and your elbows buckle with the sheer pleasure of his movements. You lean down on him, hips keeping up with him, and you bury your face in his neck, whimpering cries of his name, over and over again. He speeds up, his hold tightens, and you suspect he will leave bruises there, and the thought makes you smile. You kiss everywhere your mouth can reach him. You kiss his face, his neck, his chest, leaving more and more marks there, right where his bunny costume opens up to show his cleavage, breathless as you are as his name spills from your mouth like a prayer, and Alfonse calls out to you in turn, your voices desperate and drunk in pleasure.

 

You’re so close now, and you tell him this through loud indiscernible half-moans of his name, and he tells you to not hold back. “You’re beautiful,” he gasps, slamming harder and harder into you, his eyes lidded, his breath ragged. His hand moves from your hip to where you two are joined together, finding your sensitive nub and rubbing it, in time with his thrusts, and you cry out, loud, not caring anymore who hears you in your ecstasy. “Will you come for me, Summoner?” he asks, his fingers rubbing you, his hips slamming up into you, fast and hard, like this is all he knows now, and you nod. You cry out your answer as you desperately thrust down on him, because you could never say no to your prince, and he could never say no to you, as you rain whimpered praises to him--

 

_ \--come with me, ah, Prince Alfonse, my bunny, come- come with me- _ -

 

\--your one hand finds his, and, fingers laced in this moment of intimacy, you finally reach your peak with a cry of his name.

 

One more hard thrust and he is right behind your release with a low growl, Alfonse burying himself deep in you, coating your walls inside with thick spurts of his seed.

 

Breathing hard, you collapse beside him. His arm is heavy, cradling you close to him. Alfonse plants a kiss on your forehead, and you smile, too tired and still fresh off the high to do much else. You tug at one bunny ear again, and he looks down to you with a lazy grin on his face. You don’t talk, you only kiss again, small pecks and giggles in between, and time did not exist in that small pocket universe between you two.

 

* * *

 

 

The walls are already bathed with the soft yellow of an afternoon sun when you stir, a hand gently running through your hair. You can’t remember when you fell asleep; the rest of the afternoon was a blur of pleasure, and harmless gossip and teasing each other in between, like the ebbing of a tide, just enough for you to calm down, before one of you starts it all up again. You turn to your side to face him, and you are pleased to find he is still holding your hand.

 

Somehow this touched you, as a smile crept to your lips, this innocent display of affection, after all the definitely-not-innocent activities of your day. His eyes are faraway as he brings your hand to his lips to kiss it gently. And then, as if the gesture pulled him back from another world, he comes back to you, laughing softly.

 

“I was telling you about the spring festival,” he says, in a voice full of mirth. A trick of light, the way the soft shadows cast by the setting sun paint his face, Alfonse looks fresh, young, as if he is starting anew, and even with the scars covering his body, you want to believe that, at least for now, he is unburdened by the responsibility of protecting an entire kingdom and countless other worlds, burdens too much for one person to carry, all which he still bear with so much grace and without complaint.

 

“Do you remember what I said?” he asks, still smiling, and you nod. You do remember, although now, buried underneath his messy sheets, naked bodies tangled with each other, your talk this morning seemed as if it happened years and years ago already. Maybe it’s the feeling of spring, of newness, that makes you feel like you are living with new skin, makes you feel like whatever comes your way, you can take it on. Makes you feel like you can tell him, now, that you love him.

  
  


He had been studying the spring festival, he said.  _ “The symbolism of the celebration is fascinating…” _

 

“Eggs represent life and birth…” he repeats, that smile that threatens another fit of giggles from him never leaving his face, “while rabbits bear a large number of offspring, so--”

 

It was around this part that you had interrupted him, you remember. You look up at his face, wondering what it was he was about to say before.

 

But he does not continue his sentence anymore. Instead, you find in his eyes that same, familiar glint, and you toss your head back, laughing, your arms already linking around his neck as he rolls over on top of you, strong arms caging you underneath him.

 

“So,” he says, voice low, his face already mere inches away from yours.”It  _ is _ spring, and I  _ am _ a bunny...”

 

Alfonse nuzzles playfully into your neck, mouth latching onto your skin, and your fingers sink into his shoulder blades, already covered with thin red lines from your earlier rounds.

 

“What do you say?” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear.

 

With a grin, you’re already kissing him before he even finishes the question.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT so. Hi. I'm breaking my long writing hiatus to post this because I am a mess, but I am a mess that enables my friends and their kinks, and I wouldn't be me without that defining trait.
> 
> I uh. I like thinking about a Kiran and an Alfonse that's like, mutually exclusive, and everyone knows they're in love with each other, but it's not OFFICIAL official, because Alfonse is emotionally constipated, and Kiran has enough complicated things to think about, and it's just. A nice comfortable mess. But they'll straighten it up soon. I believe in them.
> 
> Also this is totally the reason why he lost in the second round lmao
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing this one


End file.
